On the Polarity of Exotic Stars
by lirodendron
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes keeps secrets but tells no lies, John Watson ceases to be sure about anything, and the definition of seduction is scrutinised, broken down, and reconstructed. NC-17 for graphic sexual content and adult themes. Eternally and explicitly Johnlock. Chapter 3/? Posted. Fourth work in my Conductivity series (immediately after "Resistivity and Relative Charge").
1. Chapter 1

_"To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer... And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory." – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "A Scandal in Bohemia"_

* * *

John Watson is having possibly the loveliest weekend of his existence, never mind that it's technically Thursday.

Every so often, after a long period of working without rest or after a string of particularly difficult cases, Sherlock Holmes will stay in bed for several days and do basically nothing. This has happened twice that John knows of since they met, both times prior to the redefinition of their friendship. The first time he had been certain Sherlock had the flu, and the second he had assumed your basic falling-off-the wagon bender. But neither had been the case.

Sherlock, though frequently completely inattentive to his physical needs, is not quite so thoroughly self-destructive as he often appears. John has discovered that he actually has a finely tuned sense of when he's pushed himself just a little too far, when he's lost a bit too much weight, when he's punished his body and brain so much that both are starting to rebel. His solution to this is two to four days of sleeping, eating, light reading, and absolutely no contact with the outside world.

_It's like he turns into a different person, although still entirely, unmistakably Sherlock. To see the man mellow and relaxed for more than just the time it takes for his hard drive to restart after an orgasm is both a bit shocking and totally delightful. _

On Thursday morning John wakes up, as usual, in Sherlock's bed, with the atypical addition of the detective still sprawled next to him, fast asleep. John moves to get up, trying not to disturb Sherlock, but even the slight shifting of weight on the mattress is enough.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock mumbles into his pillow, not moving.

"The usual. Shower, get dressed, we need some shopping and I promised Lestrade I'd pop round and look at something for him – strictly a medical question, he said."

With an aggrieved sigh Sherlock rolls over and props himself up on his elbow. "Mrs. Hudson can pick up what we need – she always does her shopping on Thursdays. Lestrade can sod off. And if you don't need to go out, there's no reason for you to get dressed."

"It's gone nine, Sherlock. In the middle of the week. I think I should start my day."

"You have started it. So have I. Just because we haven't gotten up doesn't mean the day hasn't begun."

It takes John a few moments to decipher the reason for Sherlock's sudden insistence that he has no need to leave the house, or even the bedroom. Because the man couldn't possibly just be simple and straightforward and say something on the order of, "John, I plan to spend the next few days in bed and I would like you stay with me for company and cuddling and possibly quite a lot of sex."

John looks at Sherlock appraisingly, with a medical eye. There has barely been time to breathe over the past couple of months, between the drawn out and exhausting tension that led them to the place of now sharing a bed; the string of dangerous, long, and stressful cases; and both of them experiencing several somewhat significant injuries. Not to mention the time spent with Victor, which has brought up some very confusing feelings for Sherlock that John knows he must be having a hard time with, though he'd never admit it.

_John bears Victor no ill will or jealousy, and has come to feel very deeply for him, but the entire trip had been hard on all three of them. Sherlock's belated realisation of his former love for the man was still sinking in, and John can see the guilt and pain and uncertainty about himself it has caused, though Sherlock cannot. _

The strain is starting to show. His face looks drawn and hollowed, with dark circles under his eyes. Sometime in the week since they've been home he's dropped the crucial pound or two which takes him from slender to gaunt. And the sense of manic energy, restrained or not, which is his primary mode of operation other than sulking, is not present.

_He looks tired. And in need of a meal. _

"Okay," John says finally, smiling despite his concern. "How about this? I get showered but don't get dressed, and then I make us both an enormous breakfast that we can eat together in here. How does that sound?"

Sherlock considers the proposition gravely. "That would be acceptable," he agrees with a yawn, sinking back down into the bedding. "Wake me when there's food."

The next day and a half proves to be incredibly, surprisingly wonderful. John does not normally enjoy inactivity for long periods, but spending time with Sherlock like this, to have him both still and present for more than a few moments, is unprecedented and he is not about to complain. He has enough chances to get up and stretch his legs when Sherlock is sleeping, which is often, or when he's been ordered to prepare more food. Sherlock is consuming huge portions of anything rich, fatty, or sweet he can get, and it warms John's heart to watch him eat heartily.

Sherlock only rises to bathe and to change the sheets a few times – he remains fastidiously clean even in his laziness. He sleeps naked, having told John that the feel of elastic or any binding fabric against his skin at night is painful and distracting and the only things bearable are his high-thread count linens. His only concession to clothing now is to throw on a dressing gown when he gets up. John doesn't mind this in the least, although he sticks to pyjama bottoms and t-shirt for lounging purposes.

_Sherlock, wearing nothing but a red silk dressing gown, barely tied, padding across the room with long, white legs visible as he moves, his hair an attractively tangled mess, makes John's heart beat fast even when he's just spent the past hour making love to him. He must know how much raw sexual attraction he exudes. He just doesn't care most of the time, which makes it even harder to resist. _

Of course the time in bed is far from completely idle. Sherlock has a high and energetic libido even at the worst of times. His expressions of desire usually fall somewhere among one of three forms: the experimental, in which he sets about collecting data and esoteric facts about one or both of them during sex – from the exact heart rate at climax to the comparative levels of pleasure received from each of three carefully selected positions; the animalistic, which occurs after cases when both are on an adrenaline high or when Sherlock is in need of an outlet for his lust or frustration or some other thing, raw need and passion resulting in erotically rough and desperate sex, as well as occasional damage of bodies and/or property (or when they are both just extremely horny, which is often); and, finally, the gentle but needy, when Sherlock needs to communicate or understand something he can't express, or if they've had a row, so that Sherlock can feel that everything is all right or apologise without having to say anything or even simply try and show John what's going through his head and divine what's going through John's. John fully enjoys each of these, and has no objections to any of it.

But what is happening now is not quite any of those things. In the same way that Sherlock has given himself permission to rest and ignore cases for a few days, he also seems to have allowed himself room to indulge in anything else he wants to do. Which seems to be, mainly, John. Not that Sherlock normally holds back, but there's something different about this.

_He's soft and mild, like he's tamed himself for John, confident in the fact that John will not try to keep him this way, that he can go back to the wild at any time. But for a brief time he wants nothing more than to be doted on and petted, to give affection and absorb every scrap of it John is willing to give him. _

He is not looking for data or high thrills or even reassurance now. He's just luxuriating in having John constantly within arms reach and in a state of undress, with nowhere to go, for hours and hours at a time. He seems to be in it for the unadulterated pleasure of slow and repeated lovemaking with the only person he trusts enough to allow that close to him, for a brief span happy and content with no other thoughts troubling his mind.

John has never experienced something like this, with Sherlock or really anyone else. Sometimes it is hard for John to tell how much he means to Sherlock on a daily basis. He knows it, of course, but it can be difficult to remember in the middle of a case or when Sherlock is sulking or insulting him. But right now there is no such problem. Sherlock is being so obviously desirous, so tenderly playful and solicitous, that even the most irrational parts of John's mind have no room to doubt.

It feels not so much like a series of discrete encounters as a single, endless tryst, punctuated only by brief forays to attend to other needs; a constant state of languid arousal, ebbing and flowing but never really going away. Moving from half-asleep touching and fondling, to long investigations of each other's bodies with gentle hands and lips, to sweet and lazy sessions of getting one another off in every possible way and position that doesn't involve feet on the floor, to two straight hours of nothing but kissing, and back again.

_John wouldn't have thought it was possible to enjoy just kissing for that long, nor that Sherlock would be interested in such a thing except as an experiment, but it appears that he's just enjoying trying to take John apart with his mouth for its own sake. Which John finds incredibly erotic. He surrenders himself to the experience, all of it, determined to not let this rare chance go to waste in any way. _

He suspects this is how Sherlock is restoring himself emotionally after extreme prolonged stress, as the sleep and food are repairing him physically. John is also in need of rest and refreshment, far more so than he had thought, as focused on Sherlock's wellbeing as he had been. This is certainly doing the trick. Sherlock may not view it as a much needed time of bonding and reaffirmation, but as he has just spent the better part of two days going over his friend so thoroughly that there is no chance he's missed even a micrometre of John's body, he wouldn't have much luck denying it either.

John and Sherlock lie somewhat tangled on the bed on Friday afternoon, still naked, anaemic late autumn sun streaming in through the window. Both are quite recently satisfied and rather spent, though by no means down for the count. John is running his hand over the inside of Sherlock's thigh, eyes closed, while Sherlock has his legs over John's chest and is dangling his head upside down off the edge of the bed.

John uses the time to recall some of the more pleasurable of many exceedingly pleasurable moments they have enjoyed over the past thirty-six hours.

_Sherlock on top of John, tongues so deep and entwined it's a miracle either of them can breathe, pressed together, both finally coming from nothing but the friction of their bodies against each other. Spooning around Sherlock and running hands over every muscle and bone and scar on the front of his body, setting a new record for time, face buried in his curls and existing for what feels like hours in that intimacy and pure bliss before finally tumbling over the edge. Ensconcing himself between Sherlock's legs and licking deep, deep within him until all Sherlock can do is grip John's hair and whisper his name._

"Mmm, yes, that one was particularly lovely," the detective's deep voice purrs. "I think I may owe you for that."

John opens his eyes. "How on earth did you know what I was thinking about?"

"Your body tenses unconsciously in very specific ways when you're contemplating sex, depending on exactly what act you're thinking of and whether you have just done it or would like to do it. Your breathing and body temperature indicated you were being turned on by something already done, most like very recently, and the sympathetic clenching of your—"

"All right!" John cuts him off, both embarrassed and pleased. "I should never have doubted you."

_It's disconcerting when Sherlock reads his mind like that, but also a sign of how well he knows John, the amount of time he's spent devoted to learning John when he could have been doing something else. It's the things like that which keep John from ever wanting anything different, even when Sherlock is at his worst. _

He can feel Sherlock's satisfied smirk and grins too. He allows his hand to drift upward and is rewarded by Sherlock's own change of breathing and body temperature. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you mind if I ask…how do you make this work?"

Sherlock lifts his head and shifts backwards a little so he is entirely back on the bed and can see John. "As a doctor I assumed you were aware of the physical and chemical reactions involved in a wide range of sexual activities, between both same and opposite sex couples, but if you need an explanation…"

"Pretentious wanker. I mean…this. The relaxing, the not worrying about cases. I've seen you take your pistol to the drywall over an afternoon of boredom and shoot up enough cocaine to make an elephant attempt bobsledding after a couple of days without work. It's fantastic, don't get me wrong, I definitely encourage this behaviour as much and as often as you like… I'm just surprised you aren't driving yourself insane yet."

Sherlock gives him the look that says "obvious" without having to risk saying it. "Because this is what I'm doing now. Not working when I should be working is unacceptable. My brain needs distraction, simulation, and to have that denied is painful. But right now both my brain and my body require rest and endorphins and sustenance before they can work at peak efficiency again, so I am doing exactly what I should be doing: thus the lack of insanity. Unless my current impulse to have my fingers inside of you while sucking you off as slowly as I can manage is a sign of mental instability…"

_That suggestion sounds perfectly lucid to John, although Sherlock's overall sanity is always up for debate. But John isn't thinking about that right now, he's thinking about large hands and the long white fingers of a concert violinist and a set of perfectly bowed lips wrapping around him. _

John is surprised how quickly this brief description is able to make him hard again, but he decides not to question it and pulls the taller man over to him, wrapping his arms around him and beginning to ravish the elegant neck while he throws a leg over Sherlock's hip, forcing them tight against each other. He's just about to reach a hand between them when there is a sudden gasp from the hall.

"Boys!" screeches Mrs. Hudson, covering her eyes. "I've spoken you to about locking the door if you're going to be…indisposed for company!"

John turns bright crimson and scrambles to cover himself and Sherlock, who seems completely undeterred by their landlady's presence.

"We're very sorry Mrs. Hudson, I thought we had, it won't happen again."

"It wouldn't happen at all if you didn't constantly wander in here without asking," Sherlock snaps.

"Sherlock!" John reprimands.

"If I didn't 'wander in' here all the time, this place would never be clean and you'd never have fresh food in, but if you're tired of that I am happy to not be your housekeeper. Especially as I'm _not _your housekeeper!"

_Mrs. Hudson rarely gets truly angry with Sherlock, but given the sight she must have just been treated to as well as Sherlock's general dickery of the moment, a line has clearly been crossed. She puts up with a lot, and never more since they've moved their friendship into the physical realm. Between unlocked doors, late night activities John was sure set the whole house to shaking, and Sherlock occasionally attacking him in the entry way (because the time it would take to walk up a set of steps and ten feet of corridor is and intolerable period to wait) she must be finding it quite a trial._

"Mrs. Hudson, again, so sorry! What Sherlock means to say is that we really appreciate all the things you do for us and we will be very, very careful in the future to not um… impose our personal life upon you by accident. And to say sorry. _Don't you,_ Sherlock?"

Sherlock scowls at John and sighs, but finally says. "Apologies, Mrs. Hudson."

She nods, placated. "I mean, not that I don't think it's brilliant that you've sorted it all out, but there are some things I don't need to actually see…"

"_Thank you_, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock says and she looks annoyed again.

"Hmph. Well, I've only come to tell you that there's a gentleman downstairs who says he has an urgent matter for you. Thank heaven I didn't bring him straight up! He seems quite worked up… what should I say to him?"

Sherlock hesitates and John can practically see his brain spark with the possibility of a case, the excitement back in his eyes. But after a long pause he says. "We're not seeing clients today, Mrs. Hudson. Tell him to come back tomorrow after noon. And lock the door on your way out if you don't mind, thanks _ever_ so much."

When she's gone, Sherlock immediately turns his attention back to John, who holds him off. "Sherlock… if you want to take that case now, it's fine with me."

_And it is, he realises, even though he's loathe to let go of these moments before he has to. Sherlock in motion and on the hunt is just as appealing as Sherlock in bed without clothes. Sometimes more. _

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. "John, I told you, this is what I'm doing now. That is what I will be doing tomorrow," he tells him, as if it should make perfect sense. "Unless you are tired of this and want to investigate on your own?"

John barely has time to say, "Not remotely," before Sherlock has dragged him back down to the bed, and then it is a very long time before he needs to say anything else at all.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't appear in any rush to break the spell the next morning, lying in until nearly ten and then dragging John to the shower with him and proceeding to shove him up against the tile and fuck him very deliberately until they are nearly out of hot water.

_This is one of John's favourite things and Sherlock knows it. This is how he is showing gratitude for John agreeing to stay with him and cooking for him and sustaining him in other ways. John sometimes wonders if Sherlock would be able to communicate properly at all if he and John never touched. _

"That was nice," John says, towelling himself off. "And when I say 'nice'…"

"When you're warm like that you look like a heat lamp in a sauna." Sherlock smiles, but John can see his mood is starting to change already, his mind ramping up, his body no longer soft and boneless. He looks worlds better than he had a couple days ago. What little colour he ever shows has returned, he seems to have gained at least half a stone, and he appears refreshed and alert.

By the time they have both eaten and dressed and are waiting for the potential client to appear, Sherlock is entirely back to his usual self, albeit the most cheerful and excited version of it.

_John's a little sad to see their impromptu dirty weekend go, but relieved as well. That Sherlock might be easier to deal with, but John wouldn't want to him stay like that all the time and the thought that he ever might was unsettling. He was best like this, and they were best together. _

It's barely a tick past noon when they hear the bell and the sound of Mrs. Hudson letting in their guest. A short, nervous-looking man with a shock of the reddest hair John has ever seen enters, hyperventilating. Before John can even stand to greet him or offer him some water he bursts out in a rush of words, "Oh, thank God! I think someone is planning to kill me!" and collapses in a heap on their sitting room floor.


	2. Chapter 2

The man wakes to the dark shadow of Sherlock perched above him on the arm of the sofa, fingers steepled, observing him unblinkingly. John kneels beside him, taking his pulse. He gives a sharp gasp and begins to hyperventilate again.

"All right, don't start that again," John orders in his most medical tone. "That's how you ended up here in the first place. You'll have to excuse my partner, he's just very eager to hear what you have to say. Okay?"

The man gulps and nods, and lets John help him sit up. John shoots a meaningful look at Sherlock, jerking his head towards the chair. Sherlock reluctantly abandons his angel-of-death posture and repositions himself in a less threatening attitude.

_Sherlock's lucky not to have given the poor stranger a heart attack like that, distressed as he was. John sleeps with the man and is still right startled when he wakes to Sherlock looming like a cadaverous vulture above the bed. Thank God it only happens a couple times a month._

"Are you ready to talk about your case, Mr. Bryant, or would you like to waste more of my time with your theatrics?"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Holmes I just – Hang up, how did you know my name? I didn't give it to your housekeeper."

"The same way I know you haven't gotten more than four hours of sleep in a night for at least six months, that you play golf regularly but don't enjoy it, that you recently started a new relationship and are a considerate lover, and that while you now enjoy a comfortable upper middle-class existence you actually grew up in poverty."

_John's eyes rove over the man but he can see little that would have given Sherlock any of this information. As usual. It drives him crazy, but it also sends a chill down his spine that is not unpleasant. _

Bryant's jaw drops, to Sherlock's obvious satisfaction. "How did you know all –"

"Because I pay attention, and because it is my job to pay attention. That's why you've come to see me, isn't it? Then get to why you're here or get out."

John sighs a bit a Sherlock's typical rudeness, but it does seem to do the trick. Bryant carefully smoothes his shirt and begins to explain.

"Well, sir, you were right about how I grew up. My mother could barely keep a roof over our heads and I never knew my father. She did what she could to get me a decent education, and always made sure I focused on my studies, but there just wasn't enough money for University when it came time. I took a gap year to work and try to earn enough, but it was difficult. About the time I was losing hope, I met a man who said he belonged to the British Society for Ginger Advancement."

"The _what_?" John interjects.

"I know it sounds strange, but it's a real organization, only for people with naturally red hair. It's mostly a social thing, but they were founded by a very wealthy man who made it the club's mission to promote the well-being and success of people like me. Some of the members are a little extreme, refusing to date anyone who isn't also ginger, talking about how oppressed and endangered we ar that sort of nonsense. But most people are just in it for fun or tradition. Anyway, the man I met explained that the Society offers scholarships to deserving and hard-working young men and women, and that I was certainly eligible.

"It seemed odd of course, but people offer scholarships for all kinds of strange reasons, so I applied. To my surprise they offered me enough to pay for my whole education, including a little to live on. Well, of course I took them up on it and became a member of the club. There was the usual secret society swearing in and rites of passage nonsense you get with these things, but they mostly were a good hearted group who just liked to get together for a drink and to make business connexions – there was a lot of that, some very well placed people are members.

"There was the understanding that when I got older and more successful that I would give back to future young people through the Society, and I didn't mind at all. Not only did they give me an education, it was through Society members that I got my current job and a decent future in my career too."

_John would not be inclined to believe any of this, if not for the man's almost naïve sincerity, his incredulity at his own life's story. Still, it may be odd, but it's hardly a case by itself. _

Sherlock yawns. "I'm not seeing a problem here, Mr. Bryant. You've come to me because life has been too quixotically kind to you?"

Bryant swallows nervously. "I'm getting to that. Sometime last year something changed in the club. It got more serious, the more extreme members ended up with officer positions, and instead of a tone of 'oh, we all have red hair, people make fun of us, gotta stick to together' meetings instead started to involve resentment and distrust of everyone who was not like us. I stopped going, kind of distanced myself from the whole thing. I felt guilty about it, but it just wasn't like it used to be and I didn't want to hate anyone, especially because of something as silly as hair colour. It was all fine for a while, I went about my life. But then I started noticing….people."

"People following you?" John asks.

"Not…exactly. Just one day I noticed while I was at the grocery that there seemed to be rather more red-headed people around that one normally sees. I shrugged it off, but it kept happening. On the street, in the shops, wherever I went. At first I thought I was going mad, but after a few weeks I couldn't deny that it was actually happening."

"Anyone you recognised? Did any of them speak to you or do or say anything threatening?"

Bryant shakes his head. "No. After a couple months of this, I cracked a little, ran over to a strawberry blonde woman and demanded to know what she was doing. She said she had no idea what I was talking about, that she was out for a walk, and said she'd call the cops on me if I didn't leave her alone. But I know this has something to do with the Society, something with my leaving. And it's happening more and more."

_It does sound rather threatening to slowly be surrounded by strange ginger people who seemed to materialise wherever you went. Even if it was a fluke, it would be creepy. Not that John has anything against redheads – he'd bedded a disproportionate number of them in his time – but too many at once, outside of Scotland, just seems unnatural._

"Did anyone from your…club… ever say anything to you after you left? Ask you to come back?"

"No, nothing. But it has to be them… I know they don't take betrayal lightly. I don't think they want me back. I think they want me dead!"

John glances at Sherlock, whose face is unreadable. "I think that might be a little extreme for a social club, don't you?" he asks carefully. "Even one that's gone a bit off the edge."

"I know how it sounds," Bryan says, pleading. "But you don't understand how some of these people are. Please, you have to help me. I don't know who else to go to."

Sherlock unfurls himself from his chair and looks down at the pitiful, shaking form sitting on the sofa. "Here's your answer. You feel guilty about taking money and then not returning the favour. Your guilt causes you to notice others of your complexion more than usual, which then develops into paranoia, which escalates the whole thing even further. Give a large donation to your Society's scholarship fund, find a therapist, and get yourself some sleeping pills. Good day."

He turns abruptly on his heel, heading for his bedroom.

_That was cruel, but John has to admit it's the mostly likely scenario. He thinks about trying to get Sherlock to reframe his diagnosis in a less harsh manner, but supposes softening the news wouldn't be doing the poor soul any favours. And Sherlock doesn't appear in the mood to compromise. _

"Wait, please!" Bryant calls after him, desperately. "What about the things happening at my work?"

Sherlock halts. "What things?"

"I was just getting to that. In the past month or so, things have been happening at my job that I haven't had anything to do with. And yet my name is on the paperwork, or my ID card was used. People have said they saw me at the office at days or times when I know I wasn't there. None of it's bad, I haven't gotten in trouble for anything. It's all minor stuff within the range of normal office work. But I can verify that I was somewhere else or doing something else at the time a lot of it happened. Yet my coworkers insist that I was definitely there."

Sherlock turns back, just as abruptly, and returns to the sitting room.

"Where do you work? Government job? Finance? No, your clothes aren't right for either… copyist?"

"Sort of. It's a specialty paper company. We do some printing, though – mostly non-standard jobs with special requirements, like those large ad banners. I like it well enough, but it's nothing I can imagine anyone would be envious of!"

Sherlock purses his lips. "All right. John will go to your place of work on Monday to see what he can find. As you seem to be in no immediate danger I think it's best if you continue to act as normally as possible. This may take some time. And for God's sake, start keeping track of who these mysterious people you're seeing are and whether the same people are showing up multiple times. Pay attention instead of panicking, I mean honestly what on earth has been going through your brain for the past six—"

John clears his throat. "Sherlock…"

"Yes, what?" the detective snaps.

"I'm not going to be here on Monday. Or tomorrow. Remember?"

"What? No. What are you talking about; of course you'll be here. Where else would you be?"

_Of course. Of course Sherlock had forgotten. It didn't pertain to him and it inconvenienced his own plans, so naturally it had been unable to penetrate his consciousness in any way. _

"Dublin. The conference. Honestly, I told you ten times and put it on the wall chart and _in your phone_!"

Mr. Bryant coughs politely and they both stop and stare at him.

"Are you still here?" Sherlock asks. "I told you I'll look into it. Now run along. You'll hear from us."

Bryant gathers his things uncertainly and makes his way out of the flat, looking both confused and somewhat reassured.

Sherlock turns his focus immediately back to John. "Well, I'm sure it's too late to get your money back on the hotel, but it can't be helped. Now, what we really should start with is—"

_Is he really presuming John's going to abandon a professional obligation of longstanding just to help with a case that doesn't seem urgent and is certainly manageable by Sherlock alone? John wonders why he's even remotely surprised at this anymore._

"I'm not cancelling," John interrupts. "This is important."

"More important than this case? A man's life is at stake!"

"Maybe. But not in the next three days, I assume, from your lackadaisical approach so far. I'm going to the conference. I'm to present a paper; I can't just not go."

Sherlock's face begins to assume the expression that indicates he is about to hit a sulk of epic proportions but John is unmoved.

"What kind of paper would _you _write, anyway?" he demands, as if the concept is preposterous.

"One on the mating habits of African pygmy tree shrews. Jesus, what kind do you think? I am a practicing physician, if you recall. I believe that's one of the reasons you found me so _useful_ in the first place. I occasionally do something of scientific interest or value to the medical community, even if you aren't paying attention when I do. It's a toxicology conference, and I'm presenting on the novel delivery and action of Indian viper venom when introduced in small doses via intramuscular injection. Remember, the speckled blonde case?"

"Well, I suppose if you must have your little amusements…"

_John bites his tongue, hard. If he lets that get to him he will already have lost. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second and lets the frustration and anger was over him like a wave. This Sherlock. This is what he does. To take it personally would be a waste of emotional energy. And the fact that Sherlock cares at all whether John stays or leaves is somewhat endearing, even if he's mostly just being controlling for the fun of it. _

"You could come with me," John points out, making an effort to seem as unruffled by the baiting as possible. "A meeting like this seems right up your alley."

Sherlock makes a disgusted face. "Waste of time. And conferences are full of…people. I've too much on here, anyway. Bring me back something to read if you like. Now if you don't mind very much, I have some urgent research to do on this Ginger Society matter."

"Yeah, urgent, sure," John says sarcastically.

The rest of the afternoon and evening are spent at their separate pursuits, Sherlock researching the case while John goes over the abstracts for the conference and his own presentation. He's so focused on it that he barely notices how late it's gotten, until Sherlock stretches and yawns on the sofa. He gets suddenly to his feet with one smooth motion.

"Bed, John," he says, heading for the bathroom.

John hides an indulgent smile and follows, pausing to tamp down the fire and collect several tea mugs and other bits of detritus that have collected over the course of the day.

When John reaches Sherlock's room his friend is already settled. John slides under the covers and before he can even adjust his pillow, Sherlock has pulled him to him for a rough kiss and to roll John half on top of him, head resting next to head.

_John can't help how much he adores this: Sherlock's presumption of his obedience, his unthinking possessiveness. No, it goes beyond possessiveness. The way he touches John, the way he kisses – it's proprietary. Not just that John's body belongs to Sherlock, but as if there is no difference between his body and Sherlock's own, like John is an extension of himself. It should rankle more, being taken so very much for granted, but Sherlock takes John for granted the way John takes oxygen for granted, and John can't quite be angry about that._

John shifts until he's comfortable, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock's breast beneath him. Sherlock seems to have come to terms with John's upcoming trip – or perhaps he's just deleted it again. John wouldn't put it past him.

John's feeling sleepy, but something that's been niggling at him all day just won't be quieted. He's tried to ignore it to show his annoyance at Sherlock's arrogance, but it just doesn't seem worth it any longer.

"Sherlock?" he asks, unable to resist.

"Hmm?"

"I give up. When you deduced Mr. Bryant today… how?"

Sherlock gives an amused rumble, smiling but not opening his eyes. "Come now, John. _You_ should be able to tell me how."

_He wants the game, he wants to see John jump for it, and John is pleased enough oblige. _

"Okay…well, the name was easy. We both saw it, 'Abel Bryant' stitched into his coat tag after he passed out. The golf… I did see calluses on his hands which I suppose you are going to tell me are indicative of an avid player. But how did you know he doesn't enjoy it?"

"The calluses are a centimetre too low, but have been there a long time. He's holding his clubs wrong, either resulting in him being poor at the game or because he can't be bothered to learn the right way, after all these years. Either way, he's not likely to be having much fun at it. Continue, please."

"All right. Well, his clothes and shoes are good quality; I suppose that's how you got his income bracket. Raised in poverty though…?"

"His clothes were expensive but were they new? Observation, John!"

"No… they'd been mended a little, were a little worn."

"Exactly. And yet his phone and watch were recent. He can afford new clothes, but he's not comfortable with getting rid of something that has any wear left in it at all. Poor man's habit. Last?"

"The relationship. There was lipstick on his collar but that doesn't mean it's a new one, does it?"

"Good, John. Not necessarily, although in a settled relationship that doesn't happen as often. More common in affairs, but he's not married. It was the whiff of women's perfume I caught. He carries a handkerchief scented with it in his pocket. Very Victorian sentiment; very recent infatuation behaviour."

John snorts. "Incredible. But one more thing. How could you have possibly known he's a considerate lover? You had to have taken a shot in the dark with that one. Besides, no one wants to think he's an inconsiderate lover. No man would contradict you."

"Mmm… true. But I had evidence to back it up."

"And that would be?"

"For a man otherwise not meticulous with his person – slightly mussed hair, two days growth of beard, clothes as before mentioned – he had perfectly manicured hands and extremely well-trimmed fingernails."

John glances down at his hands – and their extremely well-trimmed fingernails – involuntarily.

"I rest my case," Sherlock says smugly, and John laughs.

_Only Sherlock Holmes could find such a roundabout way to compliment someone so thoroughly, so intimately, and so arrogantly. John flushes with pleasure at the thought of where his hands have been lately, and the fact that they seem to have been having their desired effect on his friend. _

"You know _you_ could go to Bryant's work on Monday and check things out while I'm away," John points out after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock's eyes open and he looks surprised at the suggestion. "John, while this case is intriguing, I hardly think it merits my personal presence in such an early stage. Really, you ought to know this by now."

"Oh, of course, how silly of me," John retorts. "Because the cases you decide to go out on aren't merely dictated by whim of the moment, there's a logic to it."

"Of course there is. Clearly we need some sort of system to help you understand which is which…"

"Great. Maybe you can work on that while I'm away. In Dublin. For _two days_." John waits for Sherlock to try and talk him out of going again, but Sherlock ignores his words completely.

"Sleep now, John," Sherlock informs him, appearing to fall instantly unconscious after uttering those words.

_John can never tell when Sherlock is actually oblivious to things outside his immediate concern and when he's being purposely obtuse to torture John or simply get his own way. Doesn't matter really, because John is not going to let it work. Sherlock wins enough of the time without John actually letting him. _

Still, John finds himself nuzzling just a little closer to that long, graceful neck and growing drowsy as the rhythmic movements of the detective's chest and the sweet smell of his breath on John's cheek lull him to sleep.

John leaves early in the morning, making one last ditch effort to impress his upcoming absence upon Sherlock's brain on the way out the door. Sherlock is deep in some experiment and doesn't respond.

He finds the conference enjoyable, even if he's grown unused to being away from Sherlock and Baker Street for any great period of time. But there's plenty to keep his mind occupied, new research to learn about, new colleagues to meet, a modest amount of praise for his own work. It's invigorating.

_John feels a lot of things when he's around Sherlock, good and bad and intense. But he rarely has a chance to feel clever, really clever, all on his own. He's accepted this as part of the price of being friends with one of the most intelligent people on earth. But every once in a while, it feels nice to be one of the smart ones again. _

John finds out the answer to whether or not Sherlock was really oblivious to his trip when his phone begins playing reveille at the highest volume setting at three am Monday morning, and refuses to be silenced. John has to smother it with a pillow until the battery runs down. He doesn't mind nearly as much as he should.

On the second afternoon John runs into some friends from the Army, other medics that he's served with many times. He finds he's surprised to see them, though given the setting he really oughtn't be.

"I'll be fucked, if it isn't Three Continents Watson!" booms the largest of the group, Jackson. He pulls John into a bear hug that lifts him off the ground by half a metre.

John grins sheepishly and straightens his clothes as they pepper him with questions and exchange pleasantries.

"This man here," Jackson informs the only member of the group John doesn't know. "Has luck with women that's got the devil himself scratching his head. He's had his way with so many lovely little things it's a miracle any were left for the rest of us. Watson, what the hell have you been up to… or into?" He winks slightly lewdly.

_It had to come eventually. John has managed to dodge most of the people from his old life in the past year, for reasons having nothing to do with his sexuality, but sooner or later he'd known this would come up. His first instinct is to hide his new situation from his army buddies, a knee jerk reaction. But bugger that. He's not ashamed of it or of Sherlock and damned if he'll let military machismo bully him into acting otherwise._

"Actually, I've rather settled down," he tells them with studied casualness. "I think my playboy days are over."

"Christ, Watson, you didn't get _married_!" exclaims a stout captain – Brixley – in mock horror.

"Hardly," John laughs stiffly, and decides to just bite the bullet. "Truth is, I've got a certain gentleman waiting for me back home, and he's put a permanent end to my… roving."

The men look at him blankly for a moment, before Jackson roars with laughter and slaps him on the back. "Good one, Watson! Had us there for a moment."

But John's face is stone and the laughter dies.

"Fuck, you're serious," breathes Brixley. "Of all people, I never figured you for a cocksucker."

John's hands clench at his sides and he can feel them all taking a mental step back. They've seen him go off, and not even Jackson, who is easily twice his size, wants to be on the receiving end of that.

_John had broken Jackson's nose once, when he was being rather too drunkenly insistent with an unwilling companion, and he knows the other man hasn't forgotten it. For all his bluster now, he'd followed John around like a beta dog for months after. _

"Well," John says with transparently false cheer. "Neither did I. But it turns out I'm quite good at it. Who knew? That's not a… _problem_… for anyone here is it?"

They all hurry to say no, of course not, best of luck with that, but the conversation dwindles after his revelation and soon they are mumbling reasons why they must really get going. Great to see John, next time we'll have to hit the pub and relive the glory days.

As they go, the youngest of the group, a lieutenant named McNabb, lags behind long enough to tell John, quietly, "I read your blog, it's brilliant! And you and that detective fellow, Holmes? It's… well, I think it's nice is all. Good for you."

John gives him a half-hearted smile and McNabb punches his arm lightly before disappearing with the others.

After that the rest of the day is somewhat soured for John. The programme is still interesting, but he feels like he's just going through the motions until it's over. He's more than ready to leave in the morning, skipping the closing breakfast.

_John's gotten plenty of funny looks and comments since he met Sherlock. He never likes them and has more than once picked a fight over it, but even so that sort of prejudice from strangers rolls off the back easily. But these are men he's known for years, some since med school. They'd shared assignments and danger and rough nights. Brixley had even helped treat John after he was wounded, stitched him up with his own hands. Normally they all would have gone out and gotten roaring drunk together, telling war stories and picking up women. The rejection stings. _

John gets home mid-morning on Tuesday. Sherlock, predictably, takes no notice. He's sitting sideways in John's chair, legs dangling over the arm and head tilted back, staring blankly at the ceiling while he thinks through some problem. John trudges up to his room to unpack, feeling both relieved and oppressed at being back.

_Sherlock's unconditional commandeering of his entire existence can be suffocating and his refusal to admit that anything John does that's not directly to do with Sherlock himself has any worth at all is maddening. But here John is accepted completely, without question or comment. He's safe here with Sherlock, despite certain death always lurking around the next corner. And he's valued, even if it's not always for the things he'd prefer._

As he's slowly hanging his shirts back in the wardrobe, he hears Sherlock bellow from the sitting room. "John! John. _John!_"

John doesn't respond. He's not in the mood to shout a conversation between floors, and is certainly not going to run downstairs to find out whatever ridiculous thing Sherlock wants. He gives it 45 seconds. At 46 seconds he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Sherlock appears in John's doorway looking as if the future of the British empire hangs on the answer to his question. "John, where the hell are all the drinking glasses?"

"Hello to you as well. They're in the big stockpot on the hob."

"Why would they be there?"

"Because I felt the strange urge to sterilize them after you used them test the rates at which human kidneys dissolve in difference kinds of acid."

"Ah." Sherlock turns to go and John returns to his unpacking, feeling bone weary, wanting to just sleep off the emotional exhaustion of the past couple days.

Sherlock pauses and instead of going back downstairs, he steps fully into John's room, standing just a few feet from him, a little uncomfortably.

"I have noticed," he says in a neutral tone, "that when individuals react negatively to an unexpected change in a person, it is more often due to the cognitive dissonance caused by the conflict between the new behaviour and the perceived character or identity of a person they believe to know very well, rather than any intrinsic disapproval or abhorrence for the nature of the change."

John swivels to stare at him, momentarily floored.

_For a man with an emotional IQ into negative numbers, this level of perceptiveness is stunning. Not so much the information itself – that falls reasonably in line with Sherlock's ongoing study of human nature – but the fact that he was able to deduce what had happened at the conference and recognise that hearing it might be comforting to John at this particular moment. _

John feels the burden that's been weighing on him today lift as he's reminded of why he's here, why it's worth living with this insane, impossible man. "Thanks. That was… good."

Sherlock nods curtly, hesitates, and adds almost shyly, "It was very dim while you were gone. It's brighter now."

John reaches out and brushes Sherlock's arm, smiling at last. "I missed you, too."

"I thought perhaps you were angry with me."

John shakes his head. "No…not really. A little annoyed and frustrated, but nothing out of the usual." He grins to show he's teasing. "Why did you think I was?"

"You were…too red. And staticky."

"Red? I look red to you when I'm angry?"

"Like lava hitting the ocean."

John steps closer to Sherlock, his previous task forgotten, and puts his arms loosely around his friend's waist. Sherlock relaxes at his touch.

"And now?" John asks.

"Not angry. Bright and white and golden. Like a Christmas tree lit with candles… happy?"

"Happy," John confirms, and realises that he really is. "Although if you really want to avoid any lava, you could always try being less of a complete dick about my non-you activities."

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but before he can say anything they hear Mrs. Hudson yelling from the kitchen.

"Boys! You've got another one!"


	3. Chapter 3

John really has no idea how he goes from being hustled out the door, laptop in hand, to a crime scene to sitting in Buckingham Palace next to his naked, sheet-draped best friend, being hired for a new case by, apparently, the Queen. Who reads his blog. On the whole it's turning out to be a very enjoyable day.

_Why on earth is Sherlock naked now? He'd been clothed when John left him. Perhaps he'd forgotten their guest and gone to take a shower and neglected to dress afterward. It doesn't really matter – it's all quite brilliant and Mycroft's impotent fury at their utterly ridiculous situation is one of the most amusing things John has ever seen. _

Despite his studied reluctance in front of his brother, Sherlock is all but salivating over this dominatrix case. It certainly is out of their usual scope. John has never seen Sherlock take quite so long to decide which of his many disguises and uniforms will suit his purpose in an investigation. The only thing he tells John about his plan is that John is to set off the fire alarm two minutes after Sherlock's signal, once he's alone with Ms. Adler.

But really, the day is going along just splendidly until Sherlock punches John in the face. It all goes rather downhill after that. Distressed Stranger Sherlock is not a new one for John, although he's not previously taken it to such an extreme, and they are ushered into Ms. Adler's house with John dutifully playing the Helpful Bystander as is required of him.

_The priest thing is a novel touch. John didn't even know Sherlock had a clerical collar. It makes him very glad the detective doesn't go in for role play in the bedroom – the amount they do outside of it is more than enough for John_.

However, the last thing John could have expected upon returning to Sherlock in the dominatrix's surprisingly respectable sitting room is to see him straddled by a very beautiful, very naked woman. The image is so irrational that John can't quite manage to process what he's seeing. It's far and away more surprising than being hijacked in a helicopter by the government to find Sherlock pants-less and defiant in one of the most hallowed buildings in the country.

It doesn't help that Ms. Adler is one of the finest specimens of the female form he's ever seen – and he's seen a statistically significant sample. From her perfectly coiffed hair to her carmine lips to her flawless skin and breasts and hips and more, she is sex embodied, whispering and screaming at him, and John's body is, unfortunately, listening. He shifts and futilely tries to will away any sign of interest or arousal, cursing his still-extant susceptibility to the fairer gender.

Sherlock looks from Irene to John and back again, and John realises with a start that not only is his friend completely thrown off balance but that Sherlock's body is also responding to this brazen display. It's almost undetectable but John knows even the tiniest signs, oh so very well. He finds Sherlock's predicament entertaining for almost two whole seconds until he also realises that Sherlock is discomfited by her nakedness. Sherlock is never bothered by nakedness, his own or anyone else's, as he's well proved today. Except…

_John remembers the days before, before they had consummated their friendship, when even a hint of skin on John's part threw Sherlock into a fury, never mind his own habit of wandering the flat completely disrobed. He's never acted like that since, with John or anyone else. Only when he had been wanting, desiring, needing something that was in front of him but still out of reach._

Sherlock being flustered like this flusters John, and it's only made worse by how she's taunting John with words he's not allowed to say, not allowed to hint at, and it's fine as long as no one else says them either, but she does. She just lays them out there carelessly, with a knowing look at him and instantly he's naked too, but not naked like she is, like a little boy caught with his trousers down.

_Somebody loves you._

John snaps, ruins everything, gives himself away to their opponent, allows his flash of jealousy and unease to give her the upper hand for a moment. And then she's wrapping herself up in Sherlock's coat, his _coat_ which might as well be his skin, with a level of familiar intimacy even he doesn't dare uninvited. She's wearing it like a trophy, smug and catlike as if she's won a contest he didn't even know he was in.

But he doesn't have time to reflect on how ridiculous this line of thought is, because Sherlock has snapped him to attention and he's back to doing his duty, standing guard, working in perfect harmony with his friend, exactly as it should be, exactly as they always are. Even through the smoke alarm and the gun to his head and the moment when they are both certain that Sherlock is going to have to watch John get his brains splattered all over the cream cashmere carpet and John isn't sure which of them is about to suffer more, he feels like things are completely right. This is how it works. This is what they do.

And they keep doing it right until the moment John discovers an unconscious Sherlock on the floor of the woman's bedroom and she flips out the window and evaporates, still naked except for the greatcoat, _Sherlock's_ greatcoat, drawling a last parting shot and leaving him to tend to his defeated, incoherent friend.

_Nothing happened. Sherlock lost. It wasn't the first time, and it's good for him to remember he's not invincible. He's not permanently hurt. Neither is John. And their opponent isn't exactly an axe murderer, so what if she's still on the loose? Mycroft's problem. On the whole, he should feel good about today. A draw's as good as a win if you get a good story out of it. Right?_

John manages to get Sherlock out the door, eventually, by hoisting him over one shoulder like a gangly sack of potatoes and hauling him to the taxi. Trying to help him walk had only resulted in going in circles, though it had yielded a number of amusing videos for Lestrade and his boys. John doesn't try and stop them because Sherlock can always use another check on his ego and, frankly, John's running out of ideas.

Sherlock protests weakly as John stuffs him in the car, then slumps against the window, taking up most of the back seat. John settles opposite with a deep sigh.

_Normally after an incident like this John would have to hold Sherlock off with a stick until they managed to get home, the combination of the general danger, John's heroism in taking down several assailants singlehandedly, and John's near death experience making Sherlock half crazed with fear and desire, liable to tear off John's clothes in the taxi and take him right there to make sure they both knew they were still alive, if John didn't hold him back. John's primed for it, his body aches for it even though he's always terribly embarrassed by Sherlock's lack of inhibition, always makes him wait until they're somewhere private no matter how shaken he himself is, how desperately he needs the same comfort Sherlock seeks. Right now he almost regrets ever putting Sherlock off, even for a moment. Sherlock looks vulnerable and thin, head lolling back, face smushed against the glass._

"John, go around back, cut her off," Sherlock mumbles. "Don't let her get away."

"Okay, Sherlock," John agrees amiably. "Whatever you say."

"Don't let her get away! I need her. I need her back, I need to know…"

John feels that pit of discomfort forming in his gut again. "What do you need to know?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer and vomits all over John's shoes.

* * *

John gets Sherlock to bed, not even bothering to try to undress him in his state, just laying him on the mattress and pulling the sheet over him, hoping he'll sleep it off. John positions himself in the sitting room with the futile hope of getting some work done, strangely unsettled and tensed for any noise coming from the other room. When Sherlock does wake, calling for John, he's hardly more coherent than he had been on the way home, babbling about the woman again, insisting that she was here, trying to get up and go after her.

John catches him, patience rapidly thinning, and drags him back to bed several times before he stays down. Still, he covers him back up tenderly and assures him that he'll be close by if Sherlock needs him.

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock murmurs, sleep closing back in on him.

John sets his jaw. "No reason at all," he grumbles, and goes into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. He runs his fingers through his hair and makes himself dissipate the flash of anger that is building.

_Sherlock is drugged, he's not in control of himself. And even if he was, that sort of idle cruelty is par for the course with Sherlock, especially when he's been thwarted. And of course he's obsessed with a criminal who got away. It shouldn't get to John like this – he's accepted his status as default punching bag to a certain extent, it doesn't bother him because he can handle himself, give as good as he gets when he needs to. Why on earth should he care now? He must just be tired. It's been a long day. Everything will be better in the morning. _

Still, he feels a strange reluctance to assume his usual place in Sherlock's bed and the fact that Sherlock is currently sprawled diagonally across it, taking up every square centimetre possible with feet still hanging off the end, isn't an incentive. Instead, John trudges up the stairs to his room, rarely used, little more than a storage closet at this point but still his own space. He has that, at least.

He pulls back the slightly stale bedclothes and crawls under them, willing himself to fall asleep immediately, grateful for his ability to blank his mind out under almost any conditions. He doesn't remember his head hitting the pillow.

* * *

It's not the dawn light that wakes him, but the sense of not being alone in his room. He knows at once the presence is Sherlock and doesn't start, opening his eyes slowly to see the tall detective sitting cross-legged at his feet, observing him silently.

_The cut on Sherlock's face from John's fist is still red and angry but there are new marks too, livid welts on his knuckles, marks John didn't make and hasn't seen before, even though he knows every blemish on his friend's skin. From the scrape on his shin where he'd dinged it against a fire escape during a chase six days ago to the matching bruises on his hips in the shape on John's thumbs and forefingers, fading reminders of their recent idyll – the new wounds, minor though they are, scream at John like a siren._

John sits up without a word and waits for Sherlock to speak.

"You slept here last night."

John nods. "How are you feeling?"

"Splitting headache, dry mouth, patchy memory, nausea," Sherlock says dismissively. "I prefer you to sleep downstairs."

"I know."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "In fact, as I've mentioned many times, having an entire room of the flat that is barely used is really a terrible waste of space, there are so many better things—"

John interrupts with a pointed cough, and Sherlock falls silent reluctantly, judging that this is not the time though clearly not sure why. John changes the subject aggressively, forcing a light-hearted tone. "Well, that was a hell of a day! From Buckingham Palace to almost getting my head blown off… and that _woman_! She was a piece of work. On the whole, more than enough excitement for the week, I'd say."

Sherlock grins, his face and eyes lighting up. "Oh John, I wouldn't say that! I would say it wasn't nearly enough. Besides, _you_ seemed to take to her well enough," he adds snidely.

John flushes at the memory of his response, how he'd felt the warmth spreading in his loins and how his heart had skipped a beat at the sight of her. He had hoped the drugging would have made Sherlock forget.

"What are you so cheerful about, anyway?" he snaps. "She got away."

"Exactly," Sherlock beams at him. "I lost. She beat me!" His tone is awed. Enchanted. Delighted.

_Sherlock Holmes doesn't like women. It's not merely that he's not attracted to them sexually or romantically. It's that he has no interest in them at all, and seems to regard them as an entirely separate species, one that's far too much trouble to attempt making contact with unless a particular female has something to offer in the way of a case or assistance or expertise. There are obvious exceptions, but in general he seems to view the entirety of femininity as something completely out of his sphere, alien and superfluous to his existence, and therefore of no consequence unless there is an immediate reason for it to be. Like the solar system. Then again, that's how he treats most people. And things. But John has never seen him react to anyone – or anything – like this. Not even Moriarty._

John doesn't know what to say to that, but apparently Sherlock doesn't require a response. He jumps to his feet and grabs John's wrist.

"Come on. Mycroft will be here in…" His lips move silently for a moment, as if he is calculating the exact number of minutes it takes for the elder Holmes to brush his teeth and the length of time for a car to get across town in morning traffic. "…thirty-seven minutes. I'm sure he'll be wanting to hear all about it."

John dresses while Sherlock looks on impatiently and they go down together. Sherlock has somehow wheedled Mrs. Hudson into making them breakfast and they eat while Sherlock and Mycroft spar over the case. It's comfortingly domestic, from Sherlock pretending to read the paper in his dressing gown to the fraternal antagonism to the hot oatmeal and tea, and John feels the previous day begin to recede like a bad dream.

Even the revelation of Sherlock's slightly obscene personalised text sound isn't enough to ruin his growing good humour. In the light of day it all just seems like a juvenile joke, a pitiful grab for attention from an inconsequential person.

_Sherlock doesn't give him enough credit. John may not be as fast or brilliant but he gets there eventually. He knows how that alert got in Sherlock's mobile, and how Sherlock got those welts on his hand. He knows he wasn't the only man in the room affected by Ms. Adler's crass sensuality. And he knows Sherlock suspects far more than he's telling about her and the contents of her phone. What does it matter, though? Let Sherlock have his illusion of mystery if it makes him happy. John's just glad to put it behind them, let it fade into the realm of the ridiculous and unknowable, and watch Sherlock torment his older brother._

He grins widely as Sherlock plays the older man out to "God Save the Queen".

"You have no intention of letting this case go, do you?" he asks, when Sherlock finally sets down the violin.

"Well, it did nearly get you shot. I would think you'd be more invested in the reasons behind that."

"The only things I'm invested in are those tickets I bought to the New York Symphony that we didn't get to use last night. That wasn't exactly what I had envisioned for a date. Granted, Americans, nudity, and a riding crop were all part of the plan, but hardly in the combination that we ended up with."

Sherlock snorts. "So, the ketamine would have been just an added bonus, then?" he deadpans, and then they both crack up.

"God, your brother might have a point about us acting like grown-ups," John says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Sherlock makes a face that indicates that he couldn't agree less, and claps John on the shoulder. "Now," he says brightly, rubbing his hands together. "Don't you think it's time we attended to the extremely dangerous and convoluted case of Mr. Abel Bryant and the Society for Ginger Advancement?"

"When you say 'we'…"

"Well, it's only a five right now John," Sherlock informs him primly. "I put the address in your phone. Take a coat, it's chilly."

He picks up the violin again while John gathers his things.

"That's interesting," John comments on the tune, which is slow but rich and vibrant. "Have you played that before?"

"Hmm? Oh, just something I've been working on. Now, are you talking or are you leaving?"


End file.
